The Suite Spot (Beck Sisters #2)(12)
“Love you too.”
As Brian puts Maisie down, he glances at me, and in his eyes, I see everything—confusion, anger, sadness, regret—and I understand because I feel it all too. “I guess I’ll see you around, Rach.”
“Take care of yourself, okay?”
Our server passes him—three glasses of water on her tray—as he leaves the diner.
“He, um—he’s not staying,” I tell her. “It’s only the two of us now.”
* * *
We leave before sunrise. Maisie falls back asleep in her car seat, Fred tucked under her arm, and I’ve got a tall tumbler of cold-brew coffee to keep me alert. We said our goodbyes last night, but Mom comes outside, wrapped in her bathrobe, and kisses my cheek through the open car window. “Be careful and call me when you get to Savannah.”
“I will.”
“Ich liebe dich,” she says, stroking my cheek.
“I love you too.”
Fort Lauderdale is too sprawling to have a real sense of community, but I’m battered by memories as I make my way out of town: going to concerts at the Culture Room with various boyfriends, skipping school with the girls to hang out on the Hollywood Beach Broadwalk, and making out in Brian’s car at the plane-spotting lot at the airport. I’ve lost touch with all my old friends—I’m not sure liking posts on Facebook counts as real interaction—but as I merge onto I-95, I’m forced to put away the past and pay attention to the road. Even at 4:30 A.M., the highway can be a white-knuckle adventure.
When Anna and I were little girls—about a year before our parents got divorced—Dad decided to take us on a family vacation to the Grand Canyon. He had a limited amount of time off work, so he pushed himself to reach Arizona as quickly as possible. We slept in the car, ate our meals in the car, and we only stopped when we needed gas, Dad was too tired to drive, or one of us had a bladder about to burst—because Mom drew the line at making her children pee in a coffee container. We reached our motel outside Grand Canyon National Park in less than two days, but Dad was so exhausted, he immediately collapsed on the bed, and Mom ended up taking Anna and me to see the canyon without him.
Neither Maisie nor I can handle that kind of marathon drive to Ohio, so I divided the trip into three manageable days. We’ll have plenty of time to eat, stretch our legs, and maybe see a little of the country on our way.
Five hours, two potty breaks, and one accident in Maisie’s Pull-Ups later, we cross the state line when we go over the St. Marys River. This is the first time in twenty years that I’ve left Florida, so I pull onto the shoulder of the highway to take a picture of the “Welcome to Georgia” sign.
We arrive in Savannah right before lunch.
Hotel snob that I’ve become after working at Aquamarine, I opt not to spend the night in a cheapie near the interstate. Instead I book a room in an old brick hotel overlooking the Savannah River. Maisie and I take a walk along the waterfront as a huge cargo ship loaded with containers steams upriver. We eat waffles for dinner at the Little Duck Diner. And I sleep most of the night on a sliver of the bed as Maisie stretches out in all directions.
We’re on the road the following morning by first light.
From Savannah we head into mountain country through North Carolina, the skinny western end of Virginia, and West Virginia. It gets colder as we drive north. First I need to turn up the heat in the car, then we need to wear our new winter gear whenever we get out. I take pictures at all the border crossings and Maisie claps with wild delight when we go through the mountain tunnels on our way to Charleston, West Virginia.
Our only option in Charleston is a chain hotel, but I choose one with an indoor pool and we spend the afternoon swimming. We splurge on room service for dinner and fall asleep to the sound of rain splattering against the hotel room window. The rain continues through the night and into the next morning, when we leave.
The last day of the trip is the shortest, a deliberate choice so I won’t be completely wrecked when we reach the island. We cross the Ohio River at Marietta, skirt the western suburbs of Cleveland a few hours later, and finally arrive at the village of Marblehead on the end of a peninsula jutting out into Lake Erie.
The ferry dock is on a smaller street off the main road. Kelleys Island is visible, straddling the distance between near and far, but there’s so much more lake beyond, I can’t see the other side. Even though it’s right there in the name, I never realized the Great Lakes were so large.
The dock is fairly deserted as I park the car and walk to the ticket booth. Maisie skips alongside me. “Are we going on a boat ride, Mama?”
“Yes.” I point to a red car ferry tied to the dock. The lake is murky brown, like coffee with cream, and the sky is the color of steel. I feel a pang for the golden sunshine and the deep blue of the Atlantic back home. “Probably that boat right there.”
We reach the booth and there’s an older lady inside wearing a dark green puffer coat and gloves. Hot air from the space heater behind her hits me in the face.
“One adult with a car,” I say. “And my daughter is three.”
Maisie lifts onto her toes and rests her chin on the window ledge. “I’ll be four in May.”
“Then you get to ride for free.” The lady smiles at Maisie, then looks up at me. “Round trip?”